


Boldly Go (To You, My Love)

by mistakeshavebeenmade



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Star Trek Fusion, Background E/R, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-14
Updated: 2015-12-14
Packaged: 2018-05-06 19:16:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5427563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistakeshavebeenmade/pseuds/mistakeshavebeenmade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt:  STAR TREK AU!</p><p>Combeferre is entirely bewildered by the humans he serves with aboard the Federation Star Ship Rebelle in general, and by the ship's Communications Officer in particular.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Boldly Go (To You, My Love)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thefaceofno](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefaceofno/gifts).



“Captain is on the bridge.”

Enjolras stopped just inside the door from the lift, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Will the helmsman please remove himself from the captain’s chair?”

“The helmsman will not. Furthermore, the helmsman demands to know why the captain’s chair is the only one on the bridge with decent back support, and proposes to mutiny until such time as the situation is rectified.”

Combeferre watched his friends bicker from his station, with the sort of well-practiced neutral expression that only a Vulcan could master firmly fixed on his face. Across the bridge, he noted absently that Courfeyrac’s poker face was not as accomplished. The communications officer was grinning from ear to ear, and only managed to escape Enjolras’ notice by turning quickly towards the monitor in front of his seat so his back was to the captain.

Perhaps he should offer Courfeyrac lessons in maintaining composure?

Or perhaps that would be inappropriate. He resolved to ask Grantaire later, when he wasn’t fully occupied with trying to incite Enjolras to anger. The helmsman might be a font of sarcasm, allusion-filled diatribes, and inappropriate jokes, but he was also highly skilled at interpersonal relations.

The last time he had mentioned it, however, Grantaire had seemed uncomfortable, and had informed him that comment had been inappropriate. So he no longer mentioned it.

He shook his head, recalling his attention to his duties. There would be adequate time for reflection on the idiosyncrasies of his human friends when his shift ended.

Soon, he was so absorbed in his calculations that he completely neglected any awareness of his surroundings. The Rebelle was even more advanced than the Enterprise herself, and needed more supervision than even the entire crew of Engineering could provide. His workload frequently grew accordingly, and this shift was no exception. He grew so absorbed in it that he was startled to find Courfeyrac suddenly draping himself over his shoulders. “C’mon, Major Workaholic, shift’s over. Time to relax!”

“I currently hold the rank of Captain, Courfeyrac,” Combeferre pointed out patiently, “and it is difficult to move with a fully-grown human on my shoulders.” Of course, he could have moved Courfeyrac, but he had no desire to injure his friend.

His friend, who was grabbing his hand and hauling him to his feet, a maneuver that only worked because of Combeferre’s shock. Courfeyrac towed him toward the lift, his fingers laced together with Combeferre’s. “Come on, ‘Ferre. Wine, women, and song! Or synthehol, Eponine, and Bahorel pretending he can sing, anyway. That’s close enough, if you ask me.” The words washed over Combeferre as he tried to figure out what was happening. Did Courfeyrac understand what he was doing? Did he comprehend the cultural differences between Vulcans and humans, or was this as casual as his friendly manhandling of the rest of the bridge crew?

Courfeyrac didn’t release his hand until they reached the lift. His fingers tingled for the rest of the night.

* * *

They were on the bridge the next day when it happened again. Combeferre was jolted out of composing a brief for the captain on the natural hazards of the planet they orbited by another set of fingers tangling with his own, lifting his hands from the keyboard and spinning him around in his chair.

“You’ve got to make them stop,” Courfeyrac said from several inches away from his face, and then stepped back so he could see...oh. Enjolras and Grantaire, arguing again, but with the sharp edge in both of their voices that heralded the sort of uproar that had previously ended in three broken navigation consoles, eighteen dropped bottles of synthehol, one dropped bottle of actual Earth gin, and one hundred and seventeen noise complaints filed by junior officers. Combeferre had kept meticulous track. “You’re the only one either one of them will listen to when they get like this.” Courfeyrac shrugged, evidently unbothered by the fact that not even his considerable charm could derail an argument between their friends once it truly got going.

He pushed himself to his feet, brushing his hands against his uniform trousers to rid them of the lingering sensation of Courfeyrac’s touch.

Combeferre’s intervention, while timely, was perhaps not as subtle as it could otherwise have been, since his mind was thoroughly occupied once again with thoughts of Courfeyrac. Still, nothing on the bridge was broken in the end, so he counted it as a victory.

And really, he could not be blamed for the three glasses that were broken when the argument resumed in a more civil form after their shift. There were many things he could control, but Enjolras’ propensity towards talking with his hands was not among them. The fact that he could have saved two of the glasses had his thoughts not still been back on the bridge was entirely irrelevant.

* * *

It happened again and again. Courfeyrac would tap their fingers together in a quiet moment, grab his hands to get his attention, and use his fingers as some kind of fidget toy during meetings. And Combeferre would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy it.

Alongside calculations and risk assessments and chemical formulae and field guides to native flora and doodling structures for molecules that hadn’t been invented yet, part of his mind was always considering the great puzzle that was his friend and fellow officer. It wasn’t that they were doing anything as intimate as kissing. If it had been, he would have told Courfeyrac immediately. But it was simple affection, nothing more than human hand-holding. Nothing that the humans around him couldn’t explain away as perfectly acceptable among close friends, even though it was nothing he was used to.

And it wasn’t as though it was any more affection than Courfeyrac showed any of their other friends. He’d come to that conclusion quickly. Courfeyrac loved easily and broadly, and if anything, he had previously been less effusive with Combeferre than with anyone else.

What had changed?

Combeferre couldn’t begin to comprehend Courfeyrac and his behavior. All he could do was accept it. And, in truth, he was not unduly distressed by the actions themselves. If anything, it was entirely the opposite. He found himself anticipating the next touch, and the next, and the next. It was absolutely foreign to him, this new-found obsession. It was a depth of feeling that he would never admit willingly. He drafted and discarded three separate papers on the negative effects of close relationships with humans on Vulcan Arie’mnu. As fascinating, in a detached way, as these feelings were, they were not something to be shared with the Science Academy.

Not that he was able to view Courfeyrac as anything negative. Nor could he view his emotions in that light.

* * *

And then, somewhere half-lost in the whirl of emotions and internal debate about whether he should ask Courfeyrac what was happening, there was a planet. An away mission, which Enjolras stubbornly insisted on leading despite Combeferre’s admittedly halfhearted recitation of Starfleet’s regulations about Captains going on away missions.

He spent a productive half a shift occupying himself with graphs and tables. There were reports from Eponine on the status of the engine (performing optimally, but whatever upgrades Enjolras wanted were impossible, and would therefore take another week for Eponine and her crew to accomplish), reports from the Med Bay on the status of their supplies (terrifyingly well-stocked, and precisely how many full-body immobilization fields did they need to be able to generate at one time?), and missives to and from Starfleet Command to be dealt with.

And then the call came.

“Medical to Bridge. Combeferre?”

“Yes, Doctor?”

“I need you down here. It’s Enjolras.”

Courfeyrac was by his side in the lift after he’d bolted across the bridge, and Combeferre didn’t pause to think before reaching for his fingers, twining them together with his own. He needed the comfort, and Courfeyrac didn’t say anything, only rubbed the back of his hand with his thumb.

“It’s not serious,” were the first words out of Joly’s mouth when they reached the med bay, and Combeferre hadn’t been aware of the tightness in his chest until it loosened at once. “I think they ran into some sort of hostile plant? He broke his arm, and he’s out cold. The osteogenic stimulators are doing their job as we speak. But I thought you’d want to be down here? For when he wakes up.”

He didn’t say anything. Eventually, Courfeyrac filled the silence with something that Combeferre only half heard and couldn’t have repeated back if asked. Whatever it was, it made Joly leave them alone, so that nobody was there to complain when Courfeyrac towed Combeferre over to the empty biobed next to Enjolras and firmly pushed him down onto it with his free hand. The other was still firmly clasped with Combeferre’s, and Courfeyrac hopped onto the bed beside him a moment later.

“He’s okay,” Courfeyrac said softly, squeezing the hand that Combeferre was clasping, and it was only then that he realized how tightly he was holding onto his friend. “He’s going to be fine, love.”

“I know,” Combeferre said, because Joly had just told them as much. He didn’t need Courfeyrac to remind him, his memory was as near to flawless as any Vulcan could achieve. So why did a tightness in his chest ease at the words?

Combeferre didn’t keep track of the time that passed. They sat in silence, and he breathed slowly, deliberately corralling his stray thoughts and bringing his body back under rigid control. As he sorted through the whirlwind of ideas and feelings running through his head, one thought refused to be contained.

“You called me ‘love.’ Why?”

When Courfeyrac didn’t answer, he glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. He was watching Combeferre with an indecipherable expression on his face.

The silence dragged on.

Eventually, Courfeyrac spoke, with a pensive note to his voice. “You’re a smart Vulcan. I think that’s a question that I want you to figure out for yourself.” Combeferre had known humans long enough to recognize that the seeming compliment wasn’t anything of the sort. “But right now I think you should focus on keeping Enjolras from moving his arm before the bone is healed,” Courfeyrac continued, patting his hand once before pulling both hands away from Combeferre’s.

And Enjolras was moving, of course, so Combeferre did as Courfeyrac suggested, trying to focus as best he could on reassuring his friend that this time, he had been the only one injured without encouraging him to take reckless measures again. It was a fine line he had to walk, and there was no room in his mind for thoughts of Courfeyrac.

Not that that stopped him from thinking.

* * *

Given:

1.) Courfeyrac provides Vulcan indicators of affection, as well as traditional Human behaviors that can be assumed indicate the same, if not to a comparable degree.

2.) Courfeyrac called me ‘love’.

Statement: Courfeyrac feels an as-yet-undefined emotional connection between us.

Reason: If affectionate behaviors are being displayed (Given #1), then the most likely cause is an underlying emotion.

Statement: Courfeyrac loves me.

Reason: Given #2.

Statement: Love can be platonic or romantic in nature.

Reason: General observation of human behavior.

Statement: Courfeyrac feels platonic love for me.

Reason: He has repeatedly referred to the bridge crew as his friends. I am a member of the bridge crew.

Statement: Courfeyrac’s adopted Vulcan habits are inconsistent with purely platonic emotions.

Reason: As a Vulcan, I am an expert on Vulcan habits.

Statement: Courfeyrac is the ship’s communications officer. As those who hold this post are required to have cultural context for the languages they learn, it is unlikely that he would make a blunder concerning the difference between romantic and platonic behavior among Vulcans.

Reason: Comprehensive knowledge of Starfleet regulations and my fellow officers.

Conclusion: Courfeyrac is in love with me. Courfeyrac finds me desirable.

Combeferre stared at the proof written across the screen of his PADD in stark black letters.

It was the only logical conclusion he could draw from the information before him, but it made no sense. How was Courfeyrac in love with him, and why?

And did he feel the same way?

There was a knot in his stomach, and an ache in his chest. He briefly considered going to consult Joly, but he was more than capable of taking inventory of his own internal organs, which appeared to be functioning adequately. Therefore, the pain was not physical, but emotional.

He needed to speak with Courfeyrac.

They were off-duty, and it was late. Therefore he was most likely to find Courfeyrac in his quarters. He was moving before he’d finished the thought.

Courfeyrac answered his door sleep-rumpled, with his hair askew and his too-large shirt hanging comically off his shoulders. The sight made Combeferre’s breath catch alarmingly in his chest.

“You’re in love with me,” he stated before Courfeyrac could ask why he was there. Despite his difficulty breathing, his voice was calm. “Not just as a friend, but as a potential romantic partner.”

“Could you maybe time your epiphanies for not during the middle of the night?” Courfeyrac rubbed his eyes.

“Illogical. We are on a spaceship. There is no night and day, except as determined by the duty rotation. But I apologize for waking you.” Combeferre turned to leave, but was halted by Courfeyrac’s hand darting out to grab his wrist. For a half-asleep human, he was startlingly quick.

“Don’t be sorry. Just. Finish whatever it was you needed to wake me up to say.” There was a note in Courfeyrac’s voice that Combeferre was torn between calling hope or fear.

Combeferre turned back to face Courfeyrac, squared his shoulders, and repeated “You’re in love with me.” This time, he continued. “It is entirely possible that we have been dating for seventeen point five days, as this is the length of time during which you have been exhibiting behavior which is typically consistent with pair bonding on Vulcan. I experience tightness in my chest and a twisting sensation in my stomach when I consider the question of your feelings for me. I believe that these sensations indicate that I am experiencing a similar degree of affection for you. It is probable that I have felt this way for a considerable length of time, and I apologize for not coming to the logical conclusion in a more expedient fashion.”

Courfeyrac blinked slowly several times in a row. (Five. Five times. Combeferre counted each one, agonized by the length of time it was taking him to respond.)

Then, slowly, he held two fingers from his right hand up.

When Combeferre gently pressed his fingers against them, and felt the sleep-warmth of Courfeyrac’s skin, it felt like coming home. 

**Author's Note:**

> So I think my prompter very well may have given me the greatest gift that one human being can give another by giving me a reason to write my two favorite revolutionaries in my all-time favorite Star Trek fic trope. I deeply regret the fact that I do not have time to write every idea I have ever had about this, but I'm probably going to keep writing in this AU for the rest of forever, so. I'm marking this as a series, and I reserve the right to come back to it.
> 
> Happy Holidays, friends!


End file.
